The Strollers Part 33

But das.h.i.+ng the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without giving way, Saint-Prosper met the a.s.sault with a wrist of iron, and the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true. Mauville was breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men, the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision of the other, would have delighted those members of the count's society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of chivalry.

In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, pa.s.sing beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron's face. "I have underestimated him!" he thought. "The next stroke will be driven nearer home."

He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier's hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but behind this unexpected, even pa.s.sionate, awakening, the spectators felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in Saint-Prosper's eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his antagonist.

Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to throw off the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of blood, or weariness, or both?--but he was cognizant his thrusts had lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?

Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust, if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden, somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge, and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life, transfixing Mauville's sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a moment, playing feebly into s.p.a.ce, expecting the fatal stroke! When would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black cloud. But while his mind pa.s.sed into unconsciousness, his breast was openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.

With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained motionless; the land baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier's face, and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he surveyed his prostrate antagonist.

"Done like a gentleman!" cried the count, breathing more freely. "You had him at your mercy, sir"--to Saint-Prosper--"and spared him."

A cold glance was the soldier's only response, as without a word he turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville's side, opened his s.h.i.+rt.

"He is badly hurt?" asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.

"No; only fainted from loss of blood," replied that gentleman, cheerfully. "He will be around again in a day or two."

The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit her babe in the cradle.

"Another page of history, my chicks!" he observed. "Worthy of the song of Pindar!"

"Why not Straws or Phazma?" queried the surgeon, looking up from his task.

"Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people who talk of abolis.h.i.+ng dueling. When they do they will abolish reputation with it. And what's a gentleman got but his honor--demme!"

And the royal emissary carefully brushed a crimson stain from the bespattered saint.

By this time the land baron had regained consciousness, and, his wounds temporarily bandaged, walked, with the a.s.sistance of the count, to his carriage. As they were about to drive away the sound of a vehicle was heard drawing near, and soon it appeared followed by another equipage. Both stopped at the confines of the Oaks and the friends of the thick-set man--Susan's admirer--and the young lad, on whom she had smiled, alighted.

"Ha!" exclaimed the doctor, who had accompanied the count and his companion to the carriage. "Number two!"

"Yes," laughed the count, as he leaned back against the soft cus.h.i.+ons, "it promises to be a busy day at the Oaks! Really"--as the equipage rolled on--"New Orleans is fast becoming a civilized center--demme!"

CHAPTER VI

A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON

The land baron's injuries did not long keep him indoors, for it was his pride rather than his body that had received deep and bitter wounds. He chafed and fumed when he thought how, in all likelihood, the details of his defeat could not be suppressed in the clubs and _cafes_. This antic.i.p.ated publicity he took in ill part, fanning his mental disorder with brandy, mellow and insidious with age. But beneath the dregs of indulgence lay an image which preyed upon his mind more than his defeat beneath the Oaks: a figure, on the crude stage of a country tavern; in the manor window, with an aureole around her from the sinking sun; in the grand stand at the races, the gay dandies singling her out in all that seraglio of beauty.

"I played him too freely," he groaned to the Count de Propriac, as the latter sat contemplatively nursing the ivory handle of his cane and offering the land baron such poor solace as his company afforded. "I misjudged the attack, besides exposing myself too much. If I could only meet him again!"

The visitor reflectively took the handle of the stick from his lips, thrust out his legs and yawned. The count was sleepy, having drowned dull care the night before, and had little sympathy with such spirited talk so early in the day. His lack-l.u.s.ter gaze wandered to the pictures on the wall, the duel between two court ladies for the possession of the Duc de Richelieu and an old print of the deadly public contest of Francois de Vivonne and Guy de Jarnac and then strayed languidly to the other paraphernalia of a high-spirited bachelor's rooms--foils, dueling pistols and masks--trappings that but served to recall to the land baron his defeat.

"It would be like running against a stone wall," said the count, finally; "demme if it wouldn't! He could have killed you!"

"Why didn't he do it, then?" demanded the land baron, fiercely.

The count shrugged his shoulders, drank his brandy, and handed the bottle to his companion, who helped himself, as though not averse to that sort of medicine for his physical and mental ailments.

"What's the news?" he asked abruptly, sinking back on his pillow.

"The levees are flooded."

"Hanged if I care if it's another deluge!" said Mauville. "I mean news of the town, not news of the river."

"There's a new beauty come to town--a brunette; all the bloods are talking about her. Where did she come from? Who is she? These are some of the questions asked. But she's a Peri, at any rate! shy, hard to get acquainted with--at first! An actress--Miss Carew!"

The gla.s.s trembled in the patroon's hand. "Do you know her?" he asked unsteadily.

Smiling, the visitor returned the cane to his lips and gazed into vacancy, as though communing with agreeable thoughts.

"I have met her," he said finally. "Yes; I may say I have met her.

Ged! Next to a duel with rapiers is one with eyes. They thrust at you; you parry; they return, and, demme! you're stabbed! But don't ask me any more--discretion--you understand--between men of the world--demme!"--and the count relapsed into a vacuous dream.

"What a precious liar he is!" commented the land baron to himself. But his mind soon reverted to the duel once more. "If I had only followed Spedella's advice and studied his favorite parades!" he muttered, regretfully.

"It would have been the same," retorted the count, brutally. "When you lost your temper, you lost your cause. Your work was brilliant; but he is one of the best swordsmen I ever saw. Who is he, anyway?"

"All I know is, he served in Algiers," said Mauville, moodily.

"A demmed adventurer, probably!" exclaimed the other.

"I'd give a good deal to know his record," remarked the patroon, contemplatively. "You should be pretty well acquainted with the personnel of the army?"

"It includes everybody nowadays," replied the diplomat. "I have a large acquaintance, but I am not a directory. A person who knows everybody usually knows n.o.body--worth knowing! But it seems to me I did know of a Saint-Prosper at the military college at Saumur; or was it at the _Ecole d'application d'etat-major_? Demmed scapegrace, if I am not mistaken; sent to Algiers; must be the same. A h.e.l.l-rake hole!--full of German and French outcasts! Knaves, adventureres, ready for plunder and loot!"

Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.

"Let's get the cards, or the dice, Mauville," he said, "or I'll fall into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!"

Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing bezique, but in spite of the latter's drowsiness, he won steadily from his inattentive companion, and, although the n.o.ble visitor had some difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm.

His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon the count thrust every piece of gold carefully away in his pocket, absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and departed in a brown study.

The count's company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville's temper, and he bore his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable.

Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed.

Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to a s.p.a.cious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored maid who answered the door.

If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor stood spoke eloquently of the marquis' taste. Eschewing the stiff, affected cla.s.sicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best work of Andre Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after Fragonard, in the looms of Beauvais--couches that were made for conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition of lines and ma.s.ses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and shut at the touch. The marquis' character was stamped by these details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.

Soon the marquis' servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.

"Last night his temperature was very high," said the valet. "My master is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years."